Snowflakes at the Little Christmas Tree Farm

by Jaimie Admans

  People are so nice here. Customers have started wandering around the undercover part of the market and are joining in the conversations. I lose track of how many people ask me about Peppermint Branches reopening and tell me how much they’ve missed it and that they’re looking forward to getting their tree there again this year.

  There’s an artist who sells framed prints of his work and does bespoke sketches of children and beloved pets while customers wait, who pulls out his phone and shows me a painting he did at Peppermint Branches years ago, and a lady who sells intricate glass art, from jewellery and ornaments to wind chimes and suncatchers, who tells me she used to get inspiration from walking through the Christmas trees.

  I feel a fizzle of glee when I spot a shoe seller with a pair of wellies on display, and thankfully he has them in my size. The black rubber boots come up almost to my knee and are comfier than any of the shoes I currently own, even though I’m only buying them as a figurative two-fingered gesture at Noel. As I’m paying, I spot something else. Tucked away right at the back is a little booth with a twenty-something lad and his laptop sat behind it, advertising custom printing, logo design, postcards, flyers, banners, business cards, and other promotional materials. Like a tiny Scottish Vistaprint.

  I stand there and stare at him for a moment. I could get business cards and flyers made up, couldn’t I? It’s all very well and good to concentrate on reopening the farm, but it’ll all be for nothing if no one knows it’s reopening. On one hand, it’s bound to be a big expenditure, and I might fail. What if I can’t learn everything I need to learn? What if I can’t shear Christmas trees? What if I don’t manage to cut them and carry them and the tractor doesn’t start and the wreaths fall apart? What if the insurance is rejected or the seasonal farmhands refuse to work for such a newbie, and it just gets nearer and nearer to December and I can’t open on time?

  In my head, I can hear my mum’s voice saying, ‘what if you can?’

  I should ask Noel where he advertises, but he’s already been so helpful, and has promised to come over and board up my empty window frames and roof this afternoon. I can’t rely on him to tell me what to do at every turn. I have to stand on my own – I look down at the bag from the shoeseller in my hand – welly-booted feet.

  I approach the guy in the booth with caution, but he greets me with such a wide smile that it makes me think he doesn’t get much business. I tell him about Peppermint Branches, and he suggests designing a logo and getting flyers made up, along with postcards to advertise the grand reopening, and a set of normal business cards. I sit behind his booth and watch as he pulls up software on his laptop and throws together some logo ideas. It doesn’t take long for me to settle on a red-bordered one with a few simple Christmas trees in shades of green, that he manages to make look like they’re growing out of the word Peppermint Branches in an earthy font. His prices aren’t too unreasonable, even on my budget, and he tells me they’ll be ready to collect from next Friday onwards.

  I feel quite proud of myself as I say hello to owners at a few more stalls on the way back to Noel’s pumpkin stand, my bag gradually getting heavier because I can’t resist buying some of the locally made cheeses, shortbread biscuits, and homemade fudge from the sweet stall.

  When I get back, Noel’s wearing the black cargo trousers and navy plaid shirt that he was earlier, but his sleeves are rolled up around his elbows now. He’s taken the bodywarmer off, gone are the hat and ponytail, and in their place is a headband. A black headband with four plastic pumpkins spread across the width of it, standing out on springs and bobbing around with every movement.

  ‘Wow,’ I say, at a bit of a loss for any other words in the face of a springy pumpkin headband.

  He grins and reaches up to a little battery pack behind his ear to flick a switch, and the pumpkins start flashing so brightly that I can see the reflection of the pulsing orange lights in the concrete floor.

  ‘Amazing, right? They can be seen from right across the market.’

  He makes this sound like a good thing. ‘Well, of all the things I expected when I got back, battery-operated headgear wasn’t one of them. You seriously wear that every day?’

  ‘Every day I’m here, aye. If my farmhands cover the market shift then they wear it. I can get you a Christmas tree one, if you want?’

  ‘Oh, I think I’ve got enough challenges ahead without adding flashing neon hairbands to the list, but thanks.’

  The pumpkins jump around centimetres above his head on their springy stalks. It’s like some sort of demented tiara from Tim Burton’s The Nightmare Before Christmas, and his whole face breaks into a grin as he shakes his long hair back, which shouldn’t be nearly as sexy as it is. He dips his head towards me, amusement dancing in his blue-green eyes that never leave mine as the flashing pumpkins rattle around. How does he still manage to look gorgeous? I never believed that someone as rugged and effortlessly sexy as Noel would wear neon flashing headgear, but he manages to pull it off and still look hot.

  All thoughts are cut off by a squeal from the bathbomb stall next to us, and a lilac-haired lady in her seventies appears at my side and clamps her hands around my arm.

  ‘This is Fiona,’ Noel says to me and then turns to her. ‘And this is—’

  ‘Leah’s coming for a coffee with me and Fergus!’ Her hands tighten around my arm and she drags me away, surprisingly strong for her age. I can’t help smiling as I follow her in all her pastel-coloured glory, complete with bright lilac bob cut, a lemon blouse and pale pink skirt, and neon plastic jewellery.

  Iain has left and Fergus has disappeared from his stall as she pulls me across to the far end of hers. It smells like the best Lush shop I’ve ever walked past, and is full of rows of gorgeous-smelling bathbombs, fizzers, butters, and bubblebars.

  Fiona sits down on one of her stools and starts filling me in on every bit of gossip about every person in the market, despite the fact I don’t know any of them. She manages to cram an impressive amount into the few minutes before Fergus appears behind us and makes me jump with his sprightliness because I hadn’t heard him approach. Despite the walking stick, he’s managing to carry a tray of three cardboard cups and a biscuit from his stall. ‘Hello, lass. I’m so glad my Iain’s going to be working for you. He missed that place so much when it closed.’

  Before I have a chance to reply, he pushes one of the cups into my hand and bashes his own against it like he’s making a toast. ‘A coffee to welcome you to Elffield Christmas market.’ He also hands me the gingerbread biscuit, wrapped in a paper bag and covered by cellophane, and I try to work out what it might be without showing my surprise at the sight of a gingerbread … trombone? It might be a trombone. I’ve never seen biscuits in the form of brass instruments before.

  He hands Fiona a coffee cup and a biscuit too, and I focus on the way he touches her elbow and turns towards her as he sits down. She gives him a shy smile that’s completely at odds with her loud voice and outfit.

  ‘Noel certainly kept you quiet,’ Fergus says. ‘I didn’t realise he was seeing anybody.’

  ‘Oh, we’re not—’

  ‘Oooh!’ Fiona squeaks. ‘He didn’t tell me you were his girlfriend! What a lovely couple you make!’

  Fiona’s squeak has attracted Noel’s attention and now he’s looking over at us.

  ‘We’re really not—’

  ‘About time too,’ Fergus interrupts. ‘He’s such a good chap, he deserves someone to take care of him after he does so much for everyone else, and he’s been alone for so long now, we were starting to think he wouldn’t find anyone after that evil woman broke his poor heart.’

  ‘We’re not … What evil woman?’ My curiosity gets the better of me. I can set them straight in a minute.

  ‘That horrible stuck-up one who came back from the city with him years ago. A right hoity-toity cow who thought she was so much better than all of us, and Noel’s so down to earth, we could never work out what he saw in her. All she did was take advant
age of him. Still, the poor bugger was destroyed when she left. No wonder he hates city-types now.’

  Oh, great. What the heck does he think I am then? ‘Which city?’

  ‘London,’ they say in unison, like there’s only one city in the whole of the UK.

  ‘Noel was in London?’ I ask in surprise. I look over at him and he raises a questioning eyebrow. He knows he’s being talked about.

  ‘He lived there for quite a while, a good few years ago now mind, but he wouldn’t go back again – he’s got nothing but contempt for the place now.’

  ‘Well, that might explain his grumpiness,’ I mutter to myself, surprised by this revelation. Noel doesn’t seem like a city dweller at all. He seems to fit so well in the countryside that I assumed he’d been here all his life.

  They both laugh at the mention of Noel’s grumpiness. ‘You mustn’t take him seriously. He’s so busy at this time of year that he barely has time to breathe, he forgets to eat most days because he’s so busy helping everyone else.’

  ‘You’ll be good for him,’ Fergus says. ‘He needs someone to share the burden with.’

  Fergus seems to have a knack for saying things that are impossible to ignore. ‘Burden?’

  ‘Well, how hard he works for the farm, and looking after his mum, and everything he does for the community. It takes its toll on him but he’ll never let it show. It’ll do him good to have someone to open up to.’

  That doesn’t sound like Noel at all, at least not the Noel I’ve seen so far. I look over at him as he takes money from a customer and puts two pumpkins into a bag for her. ‘We’re not together.’

  ‘Are you single?’ Fiona demands.

  ‘Yeah, but …’

  Her face lights up like she’s just connected to the National Grid. ‘There you go, then. You won’t find a better man than Noel.’

  I can’t help the laugh. ‘Even if I was looking, which I’m not, he’s not … I mean, I’m sure he’s a nice bloke. He makes me laugh, and he’s kind, but he’s made it very clear what he thinks of me and I’ve just got out of a relationship that wasn’t a relationship at all, and …’ I stop myself quickly because I’ve said too much. I don’t want to give these two any more gossip. No doubt my relationship status will be all round the market by eleven o’clock at the latest.

  That little hint of personal information sets Fiona off and she starts gossiping again. Fergus hobbles across to serve someone who starts poking through his gingerbread ukuleles, and I start edging slowly back towards the pumpkin stall, feeling a bit uncomfortable with how quickly gossip spreads.

  As the hours move on, I can’t believe how busy it is. One crate of pumpkins is empty, and a second one is well on its way there. Of the edible goodies that Glenna made, only a couple of jars of jam are left, and I’ve lost track of how many customers have heard the news about Peppermint Branches and come over to tell me how much they miss it being there on the outskirts of Elffield and how much they’re looking forward to visiting again this year. A little thrill starts burning inside me. If even half of these people really do come to buy their Christmas tree from me this year, that’s a good twenty sales I’ve made already. It’s not a lot, but it’s a start.

  I actually get quite into serving customers, watching as Noel carves pumpkins for display and puts battery-operated tealights inside them, enjoying the way people pore over the crates of pumpkins to select the perfect specimen. I wonder about selling Christmas trees here. It’s a gorgeous place, the atmosphere is laidback and cheerful, and there’s Christmas music pumping quietly from a speaker near the back. I’m quite disappointed when Noel’s full-time employee turns up to take over at ten o’clock.

  ‘Hold on, you two!’

  We turn to see Fergus hobbling across the market lane on his walking stick, somehow managing to carry two pies. ‘Have either of you eaten a mince pie yet this year?’

  Noel and I both shake our heads.

  ‘Oh, thank god.’ Fergus lets out a sigh of relief as he thrusts a mince pie at us both. ‘Here, your first one of the season. You have to make a wish as you bite into it. It’s tradition.’

  ‘Isn’t that birthday cakes?’ I ask in confusion.

  Noel laughs. ‘This is an old mince pie tradition and Fergus won’t rest until he’s provided all of Elffield with his magical mince pies.’

  The idea of magical mince pies makes me start giggling and the serious expression on both Noel and Fergus’s faces only makes it funnier, until Noel elbows me in the arm. ‘Well, wish or no wish, one of Fergus’s mince pies is a miracle in itself. Thanks, mate.’

  He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and hesitates for a second like he’s making a wish, then he seems to steel himself before biting into it. ‘Mmm, this is so good,’ he says around a mouthful. ‘So rich and decadent, Fergus, you’ve outdone yourself this year. In fact, it’s so good that I’m going to save the rest for later. I’m still full from breakfast so I can’t fully appreciate it.’ He wraps the pie back up in its paper bag and stuffs it into his pocket. ‘Thank you, I’m going to savour that with a cuppa when I get home.’

  I narrow my eyes as I look at him. He’s overcompensating and I can’t work out what for. Fergus’s gingerbread trombone that I had earlier was delicious. Maybe Noel just doesn’t believe in magic.

  He nudges me. ‘Go on, Lee, make a wish.’

  I know he knows something I don’t know, but Fergus is looking at me with that same expectant look he had when he gave me the gingerbread trombone earlier, so I close my eyes, silently make my wish, and take a bite of … unusually hard pastry, and … good lord, what is that in the middle? Surely that’s not the usual fruit and spice mix? It’s very … chewy, and not in a good way. Was that a raisin? I nearly lost a filling to that. I suddenly know exactly why Noel was overacting.

  ‘Oh, wow, that’s really good, Fergus.’ It just sort of sits there in my mouth, impossible to chew, impossible to swallow, and impossible to spit out with Fergus watching. ‘I’ve never had a mince pie quite like it.’

  A beam lights up his face. He genuinely can’t realise how bad these mince pies are, can he? Maybe he’s trying to re-enact the Friends episode where Rachel got the pages of her recipe book stuck together and put beef in a trifle?

  I’m regretting taking such a big bite. Fergus is still watching me with a proud look, and it’s almost impossible not to shudder as my teeth crunch on something that might once have been a cranberry. Or some form of animal defecation.

  ‘It’s certainly busy here.’ I look around the market as I try to swallow without Fergus realising how difficult it is.

  ‘Didn’t expect that, did you, Londoner?’ Noel says.

  ‘It’s a real hub here,’ Fergus says. ‘Our market is known countrywide. People even come over from Europe closer to Christmas. We’re on a list of best markets in the UK and it brings in so many tourists. Of course, it used to be so much better …’

  ‘Budget cuts.’ Fiona suddenly pops up behind me, making me jump with her sudden appearance. I hope she didn’t notice the grimace as I turned away to swallow the last of that pastry or the way my eyes are watering because a particularly sharp bit caught my throat on the way down.

  ‘We used to have lights all over the building and the most gorgeous tree right there in the entranceway.’ She points to an elevated platform in the centre of the walkway inside the main entrance. ‘But the council cut funding a few years ago so we haven’t had one for a while, and it makes such a difference to the festive spirit. Last year, the handbag stall owner was kind enough to bring in a moth-eaten plastic tree that had been in his loft for a few years. It was okay after we got the dust off it, but it fell apart before the end of the season.’

  ‘Do you want a real tree?’ I ask as the idea comes to me. ‘I’d be happy to donate one. It’s definitely a good cause – the market is gorgeous.’

  ‘Oh, would you really?’ Fergus says.

  ‘The darling Mr Evergreene used to donate one every year, but w
e didn’t expect you to carry on the tradition,’ Fiona adds. ‘And it’s ever such good advertising. We’d put a big sign up saying where it came from, and the tree stands right in the entrance so everyone would see it …’

  I can’t help giggling at their mischievous faces, leaving me in no doubt that this was exactly the way they’d hoped the conversation would go. ‘How about one of the Peppermint firs?’ I turn to Noel. ‘They’re so striking, that would be an ideal place for one.’

  ‘And some smaller ones for the corners of the market?’ Fiona says.

  ‘Of course.’ I had no idea that Evergreene used to provide trees to the market. Maybe it’s a good omen that I thought of it too.

  Noel rolls his eyes. ‘You two are incorrigible, you know that, don’t you? Leah hasn’t been here forty-eight hours yet and you’ve wheedled god knows how many trees out of her.’

  ‘Sounds painful. Here, have a gingerbread fire extinguisher to make up for it.’ Fergus produces two wrapped biscuits from his cardigan pocket and hands us one each.

  ‘It’ll be a great way to spread the word,’ Fiona says. ‘And will you be selling your trees here too? What a brilliant way of advertising, we can put a sign out telling everyone exactly where your stall is.’

  ‘And we all know the market’s in trouble. If we’re going out, at least we’re going out with a Christmas tree-scented bang. That artificial thing was a mess last year. It dropped more shiny plastic pieces than a real tree would drop needles.’

  ‘I think we’d better be going before you two talk Leah into giving you a tree stand and a tree skirt too,’ Noel says, putting a big hand on my shoulder and extracting me from the circle Fergus and Fiona have formed around us.